THE MAN I WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO LOVE

The first time I saw Adrian Blackwood, I was too busy trying not to spill sparkling water on myself to notice he was supposed to be dangerous. That was Mia's job. Noticing dangerous men. "You've been staring at that floor tile like it owes you money," she whispered, bumping my shoulder with hers. "I'm grounding myself. It's a coping technique." "You're hiding. There's a difference." She wasn't wrong. The Crane estate was the kind of place people built when they ran out of things to buy. Everything glittered. The chandeliers, the marble, even the champagne flutes looked like they'd been polished by someone whose entire job was polishing champagne flutes. I stood by the entrance in my blue Zara dress — the one I'd ironed three times that morning — holding water because I couldn't afford to get drunk at a party where I didn't know anyone. "I hate rich people," Mia muttered, smiling at a woman in a dress that cost more than my rent. "You literally just said that yesterday and called them walking bank accounts." "And I stand by it." I was about to laugh when the room shifted. Not loud. Just... quieter. Like everyone collectively decided to lower their volume. A man walked in. He didn't make an entrance. He didn't need to. People just moved. Not because he asked them to, but because his presence made it awkward to stay in his way. Dark suit, no tie. Hair slightly messy like he hadn't tried very hard. Early thirties, maybe. Handsome in that annoying way where you know he never had to try for anything. "Okay, who is that and why is everyone acting weird?" I asked. Mia's face changed. The smile dropped. "Adrian Blackwood." "I don't know who that is." "You will. Blackwood Holdings? Half of Manhattan? That Blackwood." I shrugged. "Should I be impressed?" "You should be looking somewhere else. Seriously, Elena, don't." "Don't what?" "Don't look at him. Girls who look at Adrian Blackwood end up in tabloids or therapy. Sometimes both." I glanced over anyway. He was talking to an older man by the fireplace, not drinking, not smiling. Just listening with that intense stillness that made you feel like he was memorizing everything. Then, like he felt it, his eyes lifted and found mine across the room. My stomach did something stupid and tight. I looked away fast. "He's still looking," Mia whispered. "There's literally a wall behind me." "He's not looking at the wall, Elena." I turned toward the drinks table. I needed to be anywhere else. Two steps. That's all I got. "You're Elena Hart." The voice came from behind me. Low. Calm. Not asking. I turned. He was closer than I thought. Up close, he was taller, and his eyes were darker than they'd looked from across the room. There was a small scar near his left eyebrow you couldn't see from far. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else," I said, because what else do you say when a billionaire knows your name? "I haven't." "Then how—" "Your father mentioned you. Daniel Hart." Everything in my chest stopped. My father had been dead for three years. Three years of small funeral, unpaid medical bills, boxes of books I still hadn't opened because I couldn't bear to. No one at a wedding like this should know his name. "What did he say?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. Adrian's eyes flicked to the entrance, to the windows, like he was checking something. "He said you were the one person who should never know the truth." The water glass in my hand suddenly felt too heavy. "What truth?" Before he could answer — "Adrian." A woman in a silver dress appeared. Blonde, perfect, the kind of beautiful that made you instantly aware of your own chipped nail polish. She looked at him, then at me, and her smile tightened. For a half second, when she heard my name, I swear I saw fear cross her face. Then it was gone. "Can I speak to you? Now," she said. "Later," he said. "Now." His jaw tightened. He looked at me. "Don't go anywhere." The woman shot me a look that wasn't friendly, then walked away. Adrian followed. I should have left. I really should have. That's what smart Elena would have done. Instead I stood there, heart hammering, asking myself why my dead father would tell a man like Adrian Blackwood that I should never know the truth. Mia appeared beside me. "What did he want?" "I don't know." "You look pale." Before I could answer, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. The string quartet stopped playing. A man in a black suit stepped onto the small stage where the bride and groom were supposed to give their speech. He tapped the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? There has been an unfortunate change. Tonight's engagement will not proceed. I repeat, the wedding is cancelled." The room exploded. Gasps, whispers, someone laughed awkwardly. The woman in silver pushed through the crowd toward the stage, her face white. Adrian wasn't looking at the stage. He was looking at me. "Elena," he said, suddenly back beside me. "Whatever happens next, don't leave this room." "Why?" "Because someone here sent for you. And they don't want you leaving alive." My blood went cold. "Who?" "I don't know yet." Then — _bang._ Every door in the ballroom slammed shut at once. Locks clicked. My phone buzzed in my clutch. Unknown Number. One line. *ASK ADRIAN WHY YOUR FATHER LEFT HIM EVERYTHING.* I looked up at Adrian. He was staring at my phone screen, his face pale. He hadn't gotten a text. His phone was still in his pocket. Which meant whoever sent it was already in this room, watching us. Watching me. "Adrian," I whispered. "What did my father leave you?" He didn't answer. That silence told me everything. This wedding was never about love. It was about me.